


The Loveable Mr. Clucker

by Tigresse



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A rooster, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Jim has changed, Love for pets, M/M, PWP, so has Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 23:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigresse/pseuds/Tigresse
Summary: Sherlock is hiding something feathery behind his back. The question is - How long before Jim stews it.





	The Loveable Mr. Clucker

It was a ‘normal’ evening at the end of a ‘normal’ day for Sherlock and Jim, who had become a long-term couple following their faked deaths on the Barts rooftop when they were both in their absolutely early thirties. Now they were thirty seven (Jim) and thirty eight (Sherlock) and while Sherlock continued to work as a consulting detective, Jim had gone legit on many businesses of his and maintained ‘clean’ records.

 

Sherlock suspected Jim’s brains and long arms behind some complex political assassinations, some impossible heists that had been pulled off inexplicably and a few weird espionage activities which seemed to have been executed by a ‘phantom’. But as long as nothing was proved and it had nothing to do with England or Mycroft, he didn’t even question his partner.

 

That day Jim had hacked into the servers of a well-known terrorist organization and exposed their secrets to the CIA and another agency that had paid him very well to do this. He had also blown up the motorboat of a rather foul mouthed billionaire from Napoli, reducing him to a nervous wreck. Sherlock had solved two cases at one go, one of a missing document from a MI5 file which could have compromised the safety of a famous musician who had recently testified against a druglord. As the druglord got captured, Sherlock also solved the mysterious case of missing components from several chemical plants, which, as it turned out, was organized by the same criminal.

 

At seven, there was a knock at the door.

 

“Why are you knocking,” Jim called out from the kitchen, “Hands are busy, get your arse in by yourself.”

 

Sherlock walked in, looking tentative and nervous, which was so unlike him that it baffled Jim for a moment. He didn't say anything though, choosing to ignore the slightly off-kilter behavior in the Englishman. At best his boyfriend was guilty about coming home late and at worst he might have some request for Jim to help him with a case. If it was something else Sherlock would tell him eventually so no need to probe and interrogate. Not when he was busy making something complicated and laborious.

 

Sherlock stood stiffly at the kitchen doorway and saw Jim kneading dough. “What are you doing?” He asked with a tinge of disappointment in his tone, “Why are you not jumping me at the door, like you always do?”

 

“Because you wanted me to make naan,” Jim snorted, “It’s not easy baking Indian breads at home and I am making a special effort to do that. Have you noticed or are you going to still insist on being…..”

 

“Pak-pak-pak-pak.”

 

Jim blinked.

 

Sherlock looked rather red in the face.

 

“Did you just called me chicken,” Jim’s flour covered hands moved towards the knife, “Did you mock me William? TELL ME.”

 

“N-No, look I can explain….”

 

Jim opened his mouth but heard the same sound. “Pak-Pak-Pak-PakPak.”

 

The clucking of a chicken. It sounded like he had made the sound this time. How could this be? He didn’t speak ‘poultry’ and…..why was Sherlock squirming and blushing so deep like a virginal nineteenth century bride who had just seen a full blown erection for the first time?

 

Jim quickly advanced on Sherlock who tried to retreat and then walk towards the bedroom, side stepping and not showing Jim his back. Suspicious, Jim tried to look behind him and using his tall frame Sherlock kept dodging him until something suddenly flew up in the air. Jim looked at it, eyes wide, while Sherlock quickly tried to block Jim’s view by standing tall before him. “Get out of my way,” Jim pushed him aside with brute strength, “You are farting feathers now. What the fuck is wrong with you. What’s there behind your back Sherlock?”

 

“There is no…..owwww…..you traitor, I was protecting you….ouch,” Sherlock rubbed at his butt and dropped something on the floor with a mild thud. Soon three more feathers rose in the air and floated around the living room, one of them landing on the astonished James Moriarty’s head. Sherlock quickly tried to grab the bird but it flapped its wings, created a racket and dashed towards the kitchen.

 

“No,” Jim shouted, “The naaaaans……..”

 

In his pursuit of the feathered creature, Sherlock had knocked over the big tumbler of water and the dough was a gooey mess. It was not rescue-worthy any longer. Jim’s work and all the whole wheat flour they had at home, were lost.

 

“I can explain,” Sherlock said as the bird, a mid-size rooster, knocked over a vase and broke it to pieces. “And that is the vase your friend Sebastian sent from China,” Sherlock muttered, ready to be slow tortured the whole night.

 

“No,” Jim said, hands on his hips, “It’s the fake your friend Lestrade gave you last month. The China Vase is kept safely somewhere. As I have been proved right just now, let me state with total confidence that I don’t trust you to be any less clumsy than you have always been. But all of that later, first tell me,” his voice dropped to a dangerously low level, then rose suddenly and made Sherlock jump, “WHY IS THERE A ROOSTER INSIDE OUR FLAT?”

 

“I rescued him.”

 

“You what?”

 

“He was the drug lord’s pet. They kept him as a lucky mascot. It had nowhere to go Jimmy.”

 

“Oh I have a proper use for it,” Jim licked his lips as he picked out two butcher knives and the bird, suitably scared, crowed out loud and scuttled behind a cupboard.

 

“No Jim no,” Sherlock stood protectively before the bird, “You can’t eat Mr. Clucker.”

 

“What?” Jim made a face, rolling his eyes, “Unbelievable. The high-functioning sociopath who can’t care less what happens to human beings suddenly caring so much for one fucking rooster? Wait, have you started using again?”

 

“You know I don’t,” Sherlock looked hurt, “I promised you. I won’t cheat on you and I won’t use drugs again. Have I ever let you down?”

 

“No you haven’t,” Jim admitted, eyes darting to the rooster which was now trying to peck at the edge of the carpet, “But you do plenty of other nonsensical acts to compensate for your fidelity and staying off drugs. And here I thought I was the unhinged one. I am not someone who fed Mrs. Hudson’s fish cottage cheese to find out if they can digest it and killed the entire lot. I didn’t leave a mouse trap inside Mycroft’s office so his hand would get caught in it when he tried to search for his ‘private porn’ collection of surveillance videos. Also, I don’t bring chickens at home unless I plan to eat them.”

 

“But you love me Jimmy,” Sherlock said disarmingly and opened out his arms.

 

“There he goes again, why do I even fall for this....” Jim sighed and let himself fall into that embrace, getting easily lost in that broad chest and long arms, Sherlock’s delightful baritone purring sweet little things into his ears.

 

“I want you so fucking much,” the detective growled, sliding his hands under his lover’s shirt. Before he knew it, Jim was carried into the bedroom and fucked into the mattress but an eager, horny and almost dominant Sherlock. Like always, a fucked out Jim was pliant, dozy and susceptible to manipulation. So, when Sherlock made the inevitable request to him, he couldn’t say no.

 

“Please let’s keep Mr. Clucker.”

 

“Mmm’kay, but only a few days.”

 

“That would do. Thanks babe.”

 

“That’s ok. Now order takeout. I want naan and Rogan Josh.”

 

***

 

A week passed. A week during which many interesting things happened to them, all thanks to Mr. Clucker.

 

One morning Jim woke up to the loud caws of the rooster and found him perched on the headboard. To his annoyance, Sherlock was fast asleep, with ear plugs stuffed into his ears.

 

On another occasion Jim was on a conference call and the rooster created such a nuisance in the flat that the clients mistook Jim’s rebuke towards the galline as a slight towards them and called off the deal. Jim had shouted at cursed at the bird so much that Mycroft’s team had become alarmed with the raised level of noises in the Holmes-Moriarty household. Mycroft himself had descended on 221B, worried his brother in law might be killing someone in the flat, and discovered him running after the rooster who was running amok inside the living room.

 

Jim had come rather close to butchering the bird but every time he got the knife out, he remembered Sherlock and almost saw the sad, disappointed, ‘let-down’ look on that angelic face. He couldn’t really do it, but that didn’t mean he stopped contemplating it.

 

Sherlock was on his way back home one evening, tired but also satisfied with the way the Scotland Yard provided case had gone, and particularly eager to enjoy the next two days. Jim and he had decided to take some time off and enjoy ‘together’ time. Breakfast at their favorite deli, lunch at a pizzeria, dinner at their preferred Italian restaurant, visits to the museum and theatre, shopping (Jim’s choice), attending a small seminar on beekeeping (Sherlock’s choice) and of course, lots of sex. Yesss, they were going to have so much fun. Jim deserved it too, especially since he had tolerated a lot of stuff brought on by their latest addition to 221B, Mr. Clucker the Rooster.

 

His stomach dropped when he smelled it.

 

Chicken stew.

 

Yes, it had to be chicken stew. The delicious, fragrant aroma that would have brought saliva to his mouth now brought tears to his eyes. Mr. Clucker was no more! Jim had beheaded, de-feathered, scrubbed the galline and thrown him into the stew-pot. “Rest in pieces Mr. Clucker,” Sherlock ascended the staircase, regretting his decision to let the bird stay here, “I can’t blame him, he never took a shine to you. I should have set you free or kept you in a proper cage.”

 

He was nauseous when he entered the flat and, much to his surprise, found the old and upbeat Jim waiting for him with two martinis. Lately he complained and nagged, all because of the feathered companion he was forced to keep, but today he looked serene, cheerful.

 

Sherlock was convinced he had butchered Mr. Clucker.

 

“Dinner is ready,” Jim kissed him on the lips and pushed one glass into his hands, “Change, shower and come join me. Ewww you stink. Have you been running around all day or spending too much time with your homeless network?”

 

“J-Just wanted to say…..”

 

“Sherlock? You all right?”

 

“Y-Yeah, just wanted to say I understand. I don’t blame you.”

“Don’t blame me for what?”

 

“I can’t have that stew. It’s like eating a member of the family.”

 

Jim’s eyes widened and suddenly he pushed Sherlock away with full force and strength, causing the unprepared detective to land on his chair on his arse. His glass of martini spilled on to his lap and the olives dropped on the carpet.

 

“Seriously,” Jim said in a disappointed tone, “You thought I had cooked Mr. Clucker?”

 

Sherlock took in a breath and nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. He couldn’t meet Jim’s eyes. What if he had been wrong? “You have started thinking from the heart, have you,” Jim lashed out at him thought he didn’t shout or push him jostle him anymore, instead using his trademark low voice of cold anger, “Even after knowing how much he means to you, you still thought I had stewed him. Well no, he is in the bedroom. All I have done is chained one leg of his to a stand because really, a rooster on the loose in a small flat is really inconvenient. Don’t you think?”

 

“Pak-pak-pak-pak-pak,” Mr. Clucker called out, as if trying to prove the words Jim had just spoken to Sherlock.

 

“Thanks Mr. Clucker,” Jim called out, rolling his eyes, “Well, I have developed some fondness for him too, I think…..he is loveable.”

 

“You didn’t kill him,” Sherlock’s mouth curved into a smile, “You really didn’t.”

 

“No, unless you think he is cawing even after death,” Jim fumed. A pout was forming on his lips now.

 

Sherlock got up and hugged Jim from behind, placing his chin on top of the shorter man’s head. “Hey,” he whispered, cuddling him, “I am sorry, forgive me please. I guess I underestimated your ability to change. The little madman genius who could kill without remorse has now started to develop feelings for….roosters. Sorry again, now can we just eat dinner and forget this happened?”

 

“You didn’t underestimate my power to change,” Jim replied, voice still neutral but his body language suggesting he had forgiven Sherlock already, “You have underestimated your abilities to change me and make me more like you. Remember, I once said, you are me.”

 

“Yeah,” Sherlock kissed his forehead, “Yeah.”

 

Then he laughed.

 

“Why’re you laughing now?” Jim asked crossly.

 

“Because _you have changed me too_.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Remember the drug lord?”

 

“Yes, the one you got arrested a week ago.”

 

“He was trying to get you into trouble by quoting a very old association you used to have with him. He thought that through you he’d get to me and through me to Mycroft. But let’s just say he won’t bother us anymore.”

 

Jim spun around and looked at him, deep dark eyes shining with that old cunning glimmer so true to the dangerous criminal mastermind. “How did you do it?” He asked, as excited as a child on seeing the gates of Disneyland, “Tell me everything about it. Tell me every little detail, don’t leave anything out. Was it slow and torturous or fast and discreet? How did you cover your tracks? What sort of story are you going to tell the world? Is Mycroft in the know about this?”

 

Sherlock nodded, “Over dinner I shall. Come on my love, let’s have some chicken stew.”


End file.
